Forevermore
by Stamina Overlook
Summary: Leroux AU. Christine refuses Raoul's proposal to run away and returns to Erik.
1. Chapter 1: The Descent

**Author's Note: This is my first attempt to indulge in writing phanfiction. A Leroux AU where Christine refuses to run away with Raoul just because she is too scared of Erik. Please read and review.**

 **Update from 9th of December 2019: It's hard to believe that these five chapters were released over the course of more than one year and a half. The story matures with its writer, and thus I find it necessary to review and rewrite some bits. Please re-read.**

 **Forevermore, Chapter 1**

 _She wrung her hands in anguish, while Raoul pressed her to his heart._

 _"No, no, you shall never again hear him tell you that he loves you! You shall not see his tears! Let us fly, Christine, let us fly at once!"_

 _"Oh, I wish so much that I could just run away with you! But I can't! He won't let me go and he will find us anywhere, Raoul. I loathe the thought of living the rest of my life in fear..."_

* * *

Christine stood in front of the mirror in her dressing room as it slid open. Behind it was Erik, his posture as stoic and rigid as always; the crookedness of his spine was partially concealed by the heavy thick cloak that hung from his thin shoulders. His dress was impeccable, even more so than ordinary. Of course, he would take utmost care in how he would present himself to her at this moment. This was a very special occasion, after all.

He did not dare offer his gloved hand to her, remembering how she had recoiled from his touch before. He could not blame her: she would do good to keep her skin clean from the touch of his death's hands, the hands of a murderer. So she stepped in the damp secret passageway on her own and directed her gaze to the distance as if trying to look at anything... anything but HIM.

He could not blame her for that, either. Still, he could not keep his emotions at bay. Scorching and enlivening at the same time, strong feelings were swirling and boiling in his soul, going up from his chest to his head, putting his mind in a sudden daze. And he felt true triumph as he saw her follow him like a timid lamb, as they descended the endless staircase that led into the cellars, the abyss he called his "home".

In the middle of the descent, however, he could not help but notice the stiff silence that wrapped itself around them. He stopped and turned around, still holding the lantern high above his head, his golden glowing eyes cast upwards to look upon her face.

He then noticed her slightly furrowed brows, her concerned and distracted look. He jerked a few stairs up, walking up to her and looking her in the eyes, trying to see the reason behind her obvious distress. "Christine, what's wrong? Tell me, you..."

She shrunk away. Her eyes darted from him for a second, then she turned around to look into the darkness that they passed a minute ago, that hid the way to her dressing room. And suddenly realization shot through him.

Of course. She had been acting like this since yesterday, since her knight in shining armour, the Viscount, had last met her and told her about his leaving for the North Pole. Despite the fact that the decision to stay was her decision entirely, and the Viscount's proposal to run away had been successfully rejected, her fear and repulsion could be seen in her rigid stature, her nervous eyes, her folded arms which trembled still. Once again the strand of happiness he held evaporated from his soul, and his troubled gaze turned cold and distant with rage, as he leaned away from Christine, once again lifting the lantern up high.

"Ah, I see. It is that boy, right? De Chagny... He left without you."

Christine did not even try to deny it. "Yes..." After a moment of still uncomfortable silence, she brought a hand to her mouth, partially concealing her face in a defensive manner. "Yes, and I am afraid."

Erik's eyes went wide and he chuckled at her irrationality.

"Afraid? What in the world are you afraid of?"

She took a second to answer, carefully choosing her words.

"...Of what is to come."

"...Of what is to come? Christine, are you afraid of living with your Erik in these cellars?" He made a wide, dramatic move with his free arm as if gesturing towards the vaults in general. "There are no monsters in these catacombs, Christine, except for one, who is standing right in front of you." And he slammed his fist on his chest, pointing towards himself, emphasizing his own self-loathing words. "And even if there were monsters down here, YOUR monster would protect you from them!"

The whites of her eyes went large, her blue irises all the more expressive of her fear, as if not believing what he said. He interpreted it just as that, lifting his head and adjusting his top-hat.

"Yes, my dear, Erik has an unfathomable amount of knowledge and experience with various weaponry. You haven't seen him in action," he added with a little hint of pride and perhaps smugness of his capabilities.

She jerked back all the more frightened, realizing that she did not WANT to see him 'in action' under any circumstances. "Erik, I believe you, but, please, call yourself a monster no more," she said hastily.

He slouched even further, tilting his head and looking pointedly at her with squinted eyes that seemed to glow like the lantern he held in the darkness. "Oh, but your Erik is one, my dear. You cannot deny that. He himself does not deny it."

She decided to not argue further. She knew she would not be able to sway him to do otherwise. Of course, she too at one point thought him a monster, but it would be much easier to continue following him if they both pretended that it was a man who stood in front of her and led her to her future grave. So she scratched the tip of her nose with a pale-pink, accurately trimmed nail and folded her arms in front of her once again, re-directing her gaze somewhere in the dark corner, as if searching for something. At last, after several seconds of uncomfortable silence, she spoke up.

"...Y-you say you would protect me from them." Her eyes went up from the mossy wall to his masked face. She furrowed her brows in determination and spat out: "But who is going to protect me from YOU?"

Erik stumbled a few stairs lower as if struck in the chest by a powerful blow. His torso bent back, his eyes went wide once again, and his breathing became shallow and erratic.

"...M-me? Christine, do you feel like you need protection from... Erik?" He was hurt, he did not want to believe that she actually MEANT what she just said. He slouched forward, spreading his palm with spidery fingers across his chest and emitted a hoarse, ragged breath, trying to regain his composure. "Hah! Christine, Erik would never harm you. Christine must know that. I... Erik would not dare touch you, Christine, if you don't want him to."

As if to add weight to his words, he shifted further from her as if he were a contagious disease, his lantern once again hanging low at his side.

Christine could not stand seeing him like this, knowing that her words hurt him so. Stretching her arms out, as if wanting to soothe or comfort him, she descended a few stairs towards him. However, he jerked even further away from her, with his head now bent and tilted, as if he were ashamed, hiding his eyes from her. Her fragile heart felt as though it had begun to crumble at such a sight. Poor, unhappy Erik.

Christine found her voice. "No, it's not that... I know that you are a genius. But Erik... That just makes you all the more unpredictable."

His eyes momentarily went up to her, but she did not falter, the words leaving her mouth faster and faster. "I cannot tell what you're going to do in the next second, what you're thinking, why are you doing anything of what you are doing, why are you like this, I..."

She shifted, hugging herself and averting her gaze to something else. Just anything to avoid looking upon his eyes. "...I don't know you. I can't even see the reason behind your actions, what motivates you."

Something shifted in his gaze, and he tilted his head in a curious manner, squinting his eyes.

"...And that is what you are afraid of?"

Her brow furrowed even further. His reaction was not at all what she expected. And that is precisely what she was talking about. It scared her.

"Yes."

He crept up a few stairs, moving like a true predator, once again lifting up his lantern. His eyes bore into her, and something shifted in his voice; it sounded deeper, smooth like velvet, but with an underlying hint of mockery, as if he was teasing her.

"You are scared... Of what I might think or do?"

"...Yes."

Unseen behind his mask, a smile could be heard in his now amused voice. "Good."

He turned around in a whirl of his cloak, not paying any attention to what effect his words had on her anymore. "Erik is afraid of what he might think or do himself! His life has been full of quite peculiar situations - yes, quite peculiar situations indeed!" He waved his hand, silently telling her to follow him. They began going down once more, but their conversation did not cease. "I have never called myself a 'genius', as you said, but even I cannot deny that I have always seemed to be able to find solutions to my problems. Erik's brain is a mysterious place that even he is sometimes afraid of."

He had chosen to ignore the elephant in the room earlier, but decided to address it now. He did not want to talk any more of his past, anyway. "But enough about this. What about that boy?"

Her voice rang with caution. "What about Raoul?"

He proceeded with forced negligence. "Tell me. What are your feelings towards him?"

She opened her mouth in her readiness to protest to such a bold request.

"I won't judge," he added with hurry. "Erik just believes that he has the right to know. Alright, begin from afar. How did you two become acquainted?" He asked, wanting to avert her attention to a less private topic.

She thought that no harm would come from telling Erik her and Raoul's backstory. She looked up, summoning the memories from the back of her mind. "Well, it was a very long time ago," she told, her voice musing.

By that time the air around them had become cold and damp, and Christine could tell they had a little more time to go until they reached the underground lake.

Hidden anger and understanding mixed in his voice as he spoke. "Mmm, I see, so he is a childhood friend of yours?"

She sensed it but answered nonetheless. "Yes, you could say that."

"I suspected that."

Finally, vast, dark waters of the underground lake appeared before them. It had suddenly turned quite freezing there, and little clouds of water vapour escaped Christine's nostrils and mouth as she breathed. She looked around and wrapped her arms around herself in a vain attempt to keep the warmth. Erik did not seem to notice that, however: he was more interested in preparing the boat for their departure.

"So, tell Erik, how did a young Viscount meet the little daughter of a travelling violinist?" he asked with unfeigned interest, hanging the lantern on the boat's end and bending to untie the rope that kept the boat from straying off the little dock.

She could think of nothing more but resuming talking. Oh, Raoul, her dear Raoul. She already missed his presence, recounting the days of their youth. Ah, sweet memories...

"Father and I settled in Pierro-Guirec for the summer. Our trade brought us there. Father played his violin for the locals, and I sang."

Erik emitted a melodious hum. "Was your father a better violinist than I?"

Christine faltered, opening her mouth a few times and not finding the right words. "I am… not sure," she managed in the end.

Erik stayed silent. She took a deep breath and found the inner strength to continue her story.

"One day, I was standing on a cliff, and suddenly a gust of wind blew my scarf off of my head and carried it to the ocean. I screamed out of fear. Raoul was passing by with his governess, and he heard me crying. He ran into the ocean, swam through the harsh waves and rescued my scarf. Then, absolutely soaked to the skin in sea water, he brought it back to me, wet and shivering… But his smile was so bright and wide. 'Here is your scarf, Mademoiselle!' he said... We were inseparable since then. Raoul and I..."

Her voice was musing; a dreamy smile spread across her features; she even forgot about the cold, lost in good memories. To her she felt as though she were not five cellars underground, but once again back out on that shoreside in Pierro-Guirec with her childhood sweetheart. Erik listened stiffly, soaking up information.

"We spent that whole summer together, playing hide-and-seek in the cliffs, throwing sand as we chased each other, building sand castles - his were always better, no matter how much he denied it - searching for seashells, splashing in the waves... I thought... That maybe I was..."

Silence fell between them. He knew exactly what she was going to say. That maybe she was in love with that boy. He had already finished the necessary preparations with the boat, but he did not stand up, finding himself unable to move, only to listen and think. He felt fortunate he had decided to wear gloves, or else how unnaturally white - even more so than usual - his clenched hands had become might have scared the poor girl.

She continued, not noticing the sudden stiffness in her companion's figure.

"Hah, I could not even fathom the concept of love then, neither of us could. We were only children. It was a very romantic, very naive and childish talk of things we both did not understand. I couldn't comprehend my own feelings towards him back then. I liked him, of course I did, but I felt like there was something more than that... I thought it was love."

Erik listened, still not standing up, but slowly turning his head to the side, looking at Christine with the corner of his right eye. Her face darkened, and he knew that they were approaching the end of the story.

"But we parted. The summer came and went, and father and I were forced to move on. And on that day, after the gala, when he finally spoke to me again, I recognized him immediately. How could I forget him? My heart raced; I knew it was him, Raoul, who saved my scarf all those years ago. I was afraid that you would hurt one of the very few people dear to me, when he introduced himself that night... So I pretended that I didn't know him and brushed him off. I did so because of you. You, of course, immediately saw through that façade."

He shrugged, trying to not reveal the agony and pain that he was going through by his voice or stature. "Yes, it was quite obvious."

She was ignorant of his inner turmoil. "That was exactly my point. You know, you are unpredictable, but I... seem to be very."

She shrugged then, unconsciously imitating Erik's movements. He noticed that, musing for a moment what that could mean. But he brushed off the thought, stood up and went to her side, finally acknowledging the fact that it was freezing in this dungeon, and his lady was in an evening dress.

He took off his cloak and went behind Christine, offering her the warmth of his clothing. She nodded hesitantly, and he gingerly hung the cloak on her shoulders.

"It's not that you are predictable, Christine." He fastened the clasp on her neck, taking care not to brush her skin with his cold fingers, and left her side. He noticed how her shoulders shook and trembled. He shrugged it off; after all, it was freezing here, in the dungeons...

He gestured towards the boat, inviting her to climb in. She quietly obeyed as he continued speaking. "I have always been able to easily read people and predict their next moves. It saved my life more than once. And, really, my dear, there is nothing wrong in being predictable."

He climbed in after her, taking the pole and making the first move, pushing the boat a few feet away from the dock in one powerful strike. She realized that she never actually saw him rowing: the only other time she was on this boat she was half-unconscious, and the whole trip was absent from her memories.

So now she watched him with something akin to morbid fascination, as he manipulated the pole with trained precision, expertly guiding the boat throughout the darkness of the cavern.

He did not care to maintain the enchanted silence, however, continuing expressing his thoughts.

"You could say I have a... special talent for that."

She blinked, as if broken free from a spell, and asked with a hint of disbelief and fascination: "How many talents do you have?"

Not ceasing rowing for a second, he shrugged in a complacent manner, a movement which only emphasized just how gaunt his figure was.

"You know... Nobody has ever counted them yet," he said, throwing her a smug look across his shoulder.

Something clicked inside her and a grin showed on her face; her sudden light and sonorous laughter flew across the waters of the lake, reflecting from the walls of the vast vaults and returning with echoes.

She pressed her hand to her mouth as if trying to contain the laughter, but the sounds still escaped her throat, and her eyes glimmered with amusement.

He stared at her with wide eyes, enchanted and musing, what had she found so funny. Thinking it not important, and revelling with the fact that she actually laughed in his presence, he thought it a significant progress and smiled under the mask. Her girlish giggles caused warmth to spread through his chest. If anyone were to hear an angel's laugh, it would sound just as the sound that he was hearing now.

"Yes, Christine, you laugh!" He turned his back to her once more, resuming rowing. "Oh, this sound is more savoury and prepossessing to your Erik's ears than any music he has ever heard or written! My dear, this is going to be just splendid! Only you and your Erik, and endless music."

He did not notice that her laughter had ceased in the middle of his first sentence. The impact of his words, she and Erik. It made her heart sink. She suddenly did not want to laugh anymore.

"God is a cruel being, of course, but, indeed, there is some good in the world if He allowed Erik to know happiness. A whole lifetime of rejection and pain was worth it if it meant that, in the end, Erik would meet you!.."

He dragged on with his monologue, slowing down the boat and reaching forward to grab the rope on the bank and bind the boat.

"And only to think... you agreed to stay! With Erik! Erik is sorry, my dear, but he is still having a hard time believing it and grasping the fact that this all might be real, not another dream that would turn into a nightmare after a moment of bliss..."

He, hardly aware of what he was doing, put the pole down, picked up the lantern, nearly jumped on the bank with a boyish enthusiasm and offered his hand to her to help her out of the boat. She accepted the hand, not listening to him, lost in her own thoughts.

Still speaking, he led her to the drawing room, the room which doors faced the lake and left her side to snuff out the lantern and put it on the nearest table.

"Christine, Erik hasn't felt this good in DECADES, Christine, YOU gave him that feeling of belonging and... and happiness!" he spoke, lighting the gas lamps across the room. Finally, he turned to face her, bending backwards with his arms stretched outward. "Yes, Christine, Erik can say that he may finally be happy at last!"

Then he, once again, noticed her saddened expression. He bent forward, slouching in his usual manner, and gingerly approached her. Why was she unhappy? Erik had promised on his life that no harm would come to Christine. Erik would give her anything and everything she ever wanted.

So why was she crying?

He noticed a single teardrop form in her eye, which she hastily wiped away. She however couldn't hide the tiny hiccup that escaped her throat as another fresh tear that she was not quick enough to catch fell freely down her porcelain cheek.

His heart fell. What had he done wrong? However, before he could say anything, before his brain managed to form a comprehensible thought, she spoke in a distorted voice: "You are happy. Alright. What about me?"

"...You are..." he began, slightly gesturing towards her. Finally, he emitted a high-pitched, broken sigh.

"O-oh."

They both stood in silence for a minute or so, before Erik hugged himself and spoke with hesitation.

"You... you are unhappy."

She nodded; tears kept running.

"...Tell me what you want. Tell me, what can I do to make you happy, Christine? I can give you anything you want. Please. Oh, my dear, please don't cry. You know how much it hurts Erik to see you cry."

He looked at her with eyes, full of hope. She answered almost immediately. She knew exactly what she wanted.

"Freedom. I want freedom."

He snapped, tilting his head, squinting his eyes, aggression showing in his normally velvet voice.

"Freedom, freedom," he repeated mockingly. "What is freedom to you?"

"Having a choice, Erik! An ability wander free as I choose. Here I feel like I am trapped. You are going to keep me here forever, aren't you? Will I even see the light of day ever again? I am doomed to live forever in these damp catacombs!" she said with vigor as she gestured around the room.

"You… you doomed YOURSELF, Christine Daaé!" He spat out with unrestrained anger. No longer did he hold a giddy stride or heartfelt reflection of happiness. "The moment you tore off this mask was the moment you condemned yourself to a whole lifetime of THIS before your eyes!" His hands flailed wildly, furiously gesturing towards himself and towards Christine.

She just shook her head and hid her face in her hands, crying with full force. Christine had no fight left in her to hide her sorrow. She knew he was right. It was all her fault. And now, she was to live her life with a monster.

Something broke in him, however, the moment he saw her weeping. His angel, this innocent girl crumpled in on herself with tears. Her cries seemed to bounce off the very walls, creating a sorrowful symphony.

The angels were weeping. But not weeping tears of joy.

Erik realized that HE had done this to her, and he would never be happy unless he did something about it.

All the rigidity vanished from his stature, and his hands hung helplessly at his sides.

"...I am sorry, Christine. I am sorry, please, forgive me."

She was still crying, barely listening. All she thought about now was how trapped she was, never again to see her freedom, her friends… or her dear Raoul again.

Erik needed to do more than just apologizing, his words clearly fell on deaf ears as Christine continued to cry. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and approached her, straightening his back.

"Christine... listen, please. I beg you, listen to me."

Tears did not stop, however, as she uncovered her face and looked up at him. He looked down at her with immense sadness in his eyes and dared raise his hand to gingerly brush an astray curl from her ivory forehead. Her eyes red rimmed from floods of tears, still damp and running down her cheeks. He inhaled once again.

"Christine. Listen. If you do not wish to stay, then… Then I can take you back? If you wish, I can take you back. Erik cannot bear seeing you like this. I beg you, Erik will beg you on hands and knees. Please do not cry anymore." His breathing became ragged. "If you say Erik needs to let you go for you to be happy, then… Then so be it. You…" He breathed in sharply. "Christine could catch a cab… that boy's ship likely has not left yet…"

He exhaled hoarsely and retreated from her, falling into a velvet armchair and covering his eyes with his pale hand. Now HE was crying. Or, at least, actively trying NOT to. But better he cry for eternity than to see his angel weep for another moment.

"Just… just go, if you really want. Leave me here, forget me, just go..."

A deafening silence was the response to his revelation.

"God, Christine, just ANSWER already!"

He tore his hand off of his masked face and looked up at her, clutching the armrests' ends.

She stood in the centre of the room, where he left her, looking at him with wide, tear-stained eyes. She appeared to be in shock.

"Erik, whatever caused you to believe that I wanted to go with Raoul? You perfectly know that I myself rejected his offer."

"Do not mock me now or think me naive, child," he pleadingly said. "I am aware that you made such a choice because you were afraid of my haunting you two your entire lives. You said so yourself, yes, you knew your Erik was listening. Which it would be true, if it were that way."

She clenched her teeth at his biting remark. So he spied on her, even though he promised her not to do so. Sudden anger shot through her.

"You stalked me? You promised you wouldn't do that, Erik!"

"Promises are for fools, my dear," he said, waving his hand with dramatic disgust. "I have been taught not to trust ANYONE more times than you could imagine, and I still seem to not be able to finally learn this lesson," he told her accusingly, gesturing with his voice towards the events that transpired in the house on the lake when Christine was here the last time. "And I cannot even trust you, as I saw it in your eyes. You wanted to run away with him. You promised you would not speak to the Viscount again. But you did, at the masked ball you did!"

"Erik, I have already said that I am sorry for what has happened then.. I do not know what has come over me. I shouldn't have done it, I shouldn't have touched your mask, just as you had told me. I would have never betrayed your trust like that if I had known what the consequences would be."

"You have betrayed it multiple times on your own accord," he said gravely. "But Erik does not blame you, Christine, no, not at all. Erik understands why you have done it. But we are straying from the topic, my dear," he added forcedly. "Will you leave or not?"

Her shocked expression returned. Has he just literally offered to take her back to the surface? She tilted her head with curiosity and furrowed her brows - a sign of disbelief. Of course, she thought, there is something wrong here. He wouldn't just let her go, no, never.

He would never let her go.

So there was no sense in trying to run away. Even if they both thought that it would be better that way. Wherever she went, whatever she did, he would find her and taunt and torture her.

A new portion of tears formed in her eyes, and she hid her face in her palms once again. She would be forever entrapped and captive to a golden cage, fated to live the life of a mistress of the Death himself, imprisoned forevermore.

She frantically shook her head, and he needed no more answer than that. He stood up and passed her, gesturing towards the narrow hallway, inviting her to follow.

He led Christine to the now familiar Louis-Philippe room and closed the door after she entered. He leaned on the door and took off his mask with trembling fingers.

He frowned, looking at the inner side of his mask, holding the item in his hands.

This arrangement would prove itself to be more strenuous and excruciating than he expected.


	2. Chapter 2: The Hunger-Strike

**Author's Note: Hello there, my dear readers, sorry for such a long delay. Things got pretty wild here, but I'm sure the pauses between the chapters will be shorter now that I have at least some control over the situation. I plan 15 chapters for now; await a new chapter in a week or so. Maybe two weeks. For now, please enjoy chapter 2. I wonder if you will find it rather interesting ...**

 **Forevermore, Chapter 2**

Christine slowly opened her eyes, still reveling in a sleepy daze. She took a deep breath and turned to lie on her right shoulder to try and knock off the slumber that threatened to overtake her all over again. She tried and focused her eyesight and only then remembered where she was.

She abruptly sat in her bed. Blood rushed to her head, causing her a mild dizziness for a minute or so. She hid her face in her palms until the feeling went away.

And then she looked around herself to inspect the all-too familiar Louis-Philippe chamber with everything being in the same place as she had left it several weeks before that. However, the room was perfectly clean: not a peck of dust could be seen on any surface. Erik must have been taking care of this chamber while she had been away. He always cared...

Thoughts swirled in her head. What would she do now?

She needed to think, she decided. So she assumed a thinking pose, resting her head on her arm, and started musing.

Erik loved her, or, at least, he thought so. He did not tire of professing his love to her over and over again. But really, to her his love looked like no love at all. It was obvious that he would do anything so she would remain by his side - in that aspect he was completely selfish. Love, she thought, was known to be an incredibly selfless feeling. What if she did not want to be near him? She would prefer Raoul over Erik. Raoul was always tender and caring and loving. Erik... well, Erik was too, but he usually threw his temper tantrums out of nowhere and he was entirely unpredictable. And he scared her. And he was ugly. He didn't have a nose, for god's sake!

So if it was not love, then what? She recalled his passion for music. Once he had told her that music was his obsession. And another time he had told her that he loved her more than music, and would gladly to give up his music if it meant to be with her forever. She started thinking if his love was nothing but unhealthy obsession, one that hurt both her and him, and the more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed to her.

Of course. If he truly loved her, he would let her go. He was being obsessive and selfish. And if he was going to be selfish, then she was going to be selfish, too.

She stood up and approached the door as she was asking herself how had she not thought of this earlier.

* * *

In the dining-room Erik was preparing everything for Christine's breakfast. It would be Christine's breakfast, of course, because he, as usually, did not intend to share the meal with her.

He noticed that the fork had deviated several degrees to the right from its supposed position - his quick fingers swiftly fixed the imperfection. She would enjoy it, he was sure. He had already heard the commotion in the Louis-Philippe room. Surely, she was going to come out shortly.

* * *

An hour passed. He did not hear any noise coming out of her room anymore. He thought it strange. What was taking her so long?

Fear boiled up in his mind. What if she slipped in her bathroom and fell and hit her head? What if she was bleeding out there right now when he was waiting here, clueless? What if she had a heart attack? Oh, God, what if she died?

Determined, he stood up and strode to the entrance to Louis-Philippe room. He smoothed his clothes and made sure the mask was in place before gingerly planting three gentle knocks on the door.

"Christine? Are you up already? My dear, it is already 11, surely you cannot sleep in like this!" Changing his tone to a softer one, he added timidly: "Are you alright?"

Christine jerked in her bed. The second he mentioned breakfast, her stomach growled aggressively. She closed her eyes and tried to brush away the thought. No, she could not think of food.

She opened her eyes and answered.

"Yes, I am quite alright, Erik."

He let out a sigh of relief. That's it, she just slept in. Everything was fine. SHE was fine.

"Well then, I am expecting you for your breakfast, my dear." With those words, he left for the kitchen.

And in her room, Christine fought the urge to open the door and go and eat her food. "That is exactly what HE, that masked devil, wants you to do, Christine," she thought. "Eventually, he will give up and let you go."

* * *

More hours passed. It was already one o'clock in the afternoon. His brow furrowed under his mask as he watched the grandfather clock chime its one stroke.

He rose from his seat in the drawing-room and approached the door to her chamber once again. His knocking now was louder, more demanding. He was practically hitting the door with the side of his bony palm. His patience wore thin; he was done waiting.

"Christine, what is the meaning of this? Your breakfast is cold now! Has something happened?" He planted the last knock so furiously, that the door shuddered. "ANSWER!"

She jumped in her bed. The ache in her stomach had dulled, so it has been easier to fight the urge to go open the door. But she was scared, so she remained silent.

Silence.

Then, a deafeningly loud smack on the wooden door of unusual construction could be heard.

"...Christine, ANSWER, DAMN YOU!"

"Leave me alone, Erik!"

"What in the world do you mean? Erik will not leave you! Not until he sees you to your breakfast!"

"I will not leave this room, Erik! Go away!" She trembled from talking back to him in such a manner, but she was tired of being a scared little lamb in a lion's den.

An exasperated huff could be heard from behind the door.

"Christine, you foolish child, stop speaking nonsense! Surely you must eat! Christine cannot starve!"

"She can! And she will! If you cannot let me live in peace, I will just wither away here, underground, s-so that no-ob-body w-would h-have m-me..." she rasped, choking on her tears.

A soft gasp came from the corridor.

"C-Christine... You do not mean this... Please, you must go out..."

She only shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling of being besieged, entranced by his pleading hypnotizing voice, and buried her face in her bed sheets.

* * *

The next few hours were spent by Christine's door, begging the young girl to leave her room and go and have a proper meal. In answer he only received sobs and wails. He tried opening the door the usual way - pressing into the wood and sliding it sideways - but it was locked from the other side, so he could not do that. He nearly broke the door down in frustration and anger, and his pretty violent attempts to do so had most likely scared the poor girl to death, but, alas, he had made sure the room he himself had designed would be impenetrable.

After a long time of battling Christine's stubbornness and the damn door, he decided to give up his attempts to coax or scare Christine out of her room and strode to the drawing-room. He checked the time. It was nearly 5 o'clock in the afternoon.

He gritted his teeth behind his silk mask and clenched his fists so tightly, that his accurately trimmed nails bit into his thin papery skin, leaving indents. His angel was suffering... starving because of him! Horrid, gruesome, pitiful, horrendous monster, monster, monster, monster, he reproved himself. 'She is suffering because of you', one of his demons whispered in his ear. 'What will you do now?'

He could not let her die. If she died, then he would die, too. He could not bear the thought of a life without her... He needed to find a way to get her to leave her room. Pleading or pressing her would not help. Apparently, it only made her cry more. Had she really thought that she could regain her freedom by going on a... **hunger-strike?!**

He thought that, maybe, he could reach her room through the 'Torture Chamber'. The 'Torture Chamber', after all, had a door leading to the Louis-Philippe chamber. As usual, he smirked at the name he bestowed upon the little chamber with an iron tree.

Seriously, it was such a felicitous name for that chamber! Once the people would hear that they would be taken to the infamous 'Torture Chamber', they would usually begin imagining various horrid things: racks, garrotes, iron maidens, giant scissors... However, when they would see the chamber, they would find themselves in a rather precarious location! They would find themselves in a forest made of iron trees, and they would believe that the name of this chamber was a joke. However, once the chamber would be activated, the REAL tortures would begin! No man has yet survived in the 'Torture Chamber'!

He found himself chuckling against his own will. Still giggling like a schoolgirl, he exited the house, locking it with a 'key', which did not resemble a key at all, and, untying the boat and moving to stand in it, started rowing across the lake.

The ebony waters of the underground lake - which was not a lake at all, but rather subterranean waters turned into a reservoir by Opera constructors, - the waters parted obediently before the boat's bow as the steady movements of the pole guided it through them. The stale, cold air made it more difficult to breath than above ground, and the faint smell of the water gave away the level of its purity. One would not want to fall into that water, or drink it - it was not at all potable.

It was not long until he had reached the other bank of the lake, the one of the Communists' road. There, in the Communists' dungeon, he used a side path and began his lengthy and tedious ascend to reach the second cellar.

Every step was weighing him down with guilt and self-loathing, which slowed down his climbing a whole lot. He could not understand Christine, no matter how much he tried. Alright, for the sake of the argument, he thought, suppose that Christine loves the Viscount. The Viscount left her, both lovers, most assuredly, parting in agony over their reciprocal loss. Then, he, Erik, came along and took her to his underground house, for her to live with him forever. She would be his wife, his loving, living bride… if only he could get her to not lock herself away in her room!

He scoffed under his _barbe du masque_ , and the free cloth swayed from his forceful breath. Women… Truly the most mysterious creatures of the world. One does not need to rampage the deepest corners of the planet to search for unicorns, or fairies, or dragons: women are far more mythical and enigmatic beings, and they were here all along, right under men's noses.

Right when he was contemplating what mythical creature his Christine would be (because none really fit the description, she deserved a title no less than one of a goddess), he found himself exiting the secret passage on the second cellar, where dark, cryptic shades of men in all senses of that word did their hard labour of constantly supplying the giant Opera House's heater machines with charcoal. He hid in the shadows, that have been called forth by the stark contrast of the darkness of the cellars and the light emitted by the gigantic furnaces, and found his way onto the stairs, gingerly creeping down into the third cellar, where the crisp silence, deep semi-darkness and dusty old stage sets created a unique, exceptional atmosphere of a magical, abstract ancient kingdom of different realities, distorted and melted at the hands of the triumphant _homo sapiens_.

And there was a foreign feeling, an alien presence, which segregated from the common environment and stuck out from the regular ambience like a sore thumb. It was very obvious, even though nothing unusual could be heard or seen. This gut feeling alerted Erik immediately, and, following his instincts, he crouched down and moved within the darkness as if he himself were a shadow.

He had passed several halls filled with abandoned stage pieces when he finally saw it. There was a _light_ in the everpresent gloom. It was being emitted by a lantern, held high above the floor of stone by a male figure of an average height.

The figure must have sensed him, as it suddenly turned around with a horrified look upon its feminine face.

"WHO'S THERE?" It yelled with distraught into the darkness. Erik winced.

It was _the Viscount Raoul de Chagny himself_.

The Viscount took a few deep, shuddering breaths and turned back around, talking to himself in a quivering voice in an attempt to calm down. "Alright, Raoul, do not yield… Now, where have they found that stagehand?..."

So the boy hadn't left after all, Erik contemplated. Why was the fop here, obviously trying to search for Christine? Had something happened to the ship? Erik stood up from his hiding point and silently dashed further into the shadows, the rustling of his cloak the only sound that has been created by his stealthy movement.

Raoul ventured deeper into the halls of the third cellar, nervously glancing around for a sign of the _monster_ appearing. He had a terrible, gut-wrenching feeling of being watched as he looked around for the legendary farm-house and the scene from the _Roi de Lahore_.

In the darkness Erik shifted uncomfortably. The fop was reaching his destination. One more turn to the right and the sought after stage pieces would be seen… The boy had to be stopped! But how? He could not kill him, Christine would be mad! Oh, but she thinks he left for the North Pole- no one would find out, hehe… He found himself chuckling slightly as his bony fingers found the thin string, folded neatly in his pocket…

Raoul heard something. It sounded like a chuckle… Perspiration appeared on his smooth forehead; suddenly his palms turned sweaty. A sense of dread washed over him like a tide and pulled him into the endless and bottomless ocean of panic. Abruptly, he swirled around and cried out in a tone that he hoped sounded more confident than he felt.

 **"I KNOW YOU ARE HERE, MONSTER! WHERE IS CHRISTINE?! WHERE HAVE YOU TAKEN HER?!"**

Erik's hand, ready to throw the string, froze. He eyed the manchild before him with curiosity. Interesting, he thought, he assumed the fop did not possess even a semblance of a backbone. Nevertheless, here he stood, shouting into the darkness as if it was going to save him from immediate death.

The bony hand that held the string came down, the thin material swishing through the dusty air and finding it way around the lantern that held the only light source in this darkness. The lantern was wrested from the Viscount's grip and shattered into a million pieces upon impact with the stone floor. Raoul emitted a sharp, terrified gasp and stumbled backwards, leaning on the cold wall, trying to support himself, trying to accustom his eyesight to the never-ending darkness that seemed to close in on him…

"You should have known better than returning to my domain, boy," the Voice said sternly, seething with barely restricted anger.

Raoul felt his knees shaking. The Man's Voice seemed to come from all directions at once, the voice of extreme power and possessiveness, the voice of an angel?... No, of a monster, a demon!

"WHERE IS CHRISTINE?!" Raoul shouted again into the darkness.

The Voice chuckled.

"Christine Daaé is none of your concern anymore. Leave this place _immediately_ , lest you wish to be prematurely sent to your personal hell."

Raoul gulped. But he refused to yield. "I am not going to leave without her... you... MONSTER!"

Suddenly, an ice-cold skeletal hand wove around the Viscount's throat, lifting him off the floor, leaving him gasping for air and clawing at the arm that choked him, his mind slowly getting dizzy, his eyes only ever focused on those two sinister yellow dots that had suddenly appeared before him...

"Watch your tongue, _boy_ ," the Voice seethed through gritted teeth, as his golden eyes gleamed with fury in the darkness. "I will take _immense_ pleasure in snapping your pretty neck." As if to validate his threat, his grip on the Viscount's throat tightened just a bit. But it was enough for de Chagny to emit a strangled cry and for his clawing on Erik's hand to weaken. The Phantom felt hot tears fall onto his bony, cold fingers.

And suddenly, an image appeared before his eyes. In his mind, for a split second, in a flash he saw all those faces once again, the faces of those he had killed with his bare hands the same way, lifting them off the ground and choking them, the faces that he had tried to forget and, after decades, succeeded. His memory flooded with all those faces, wincing in pain, those different eyes, - jade green, emerald, ice-blue, chocolate brown, dark-turquoise, ALL sorts of eyes, - shining with tears of horror; he suddenly felt all those tears on his hands, burning his skin as liquid fire. He remembered just how many times he had felt tears like those on his deathly hands… And he pulled back.

The Viscount fell onto the ground, hitting the floor with a loud thump, gasping for air, holding his now sore throat. The Phantom stumbled backwards, clutching his head, still overwhelmed with sudden feel of _deja vu_ , such sudden, ever-torturing nostalgia…

All Raoul saw were two faintly shining golden lights swinging back and forth in the darkness; all he heard were strangled groans, as if _the beast_ was fighting someone…

At first, Raoul thought he had been saved by some unknown hero; he was ready to thank his saviour, but then, as his eyes accustomed to the darkness, with horror he saw that _the monster_ was fighting… _himself_!

Finally regaining his breath, Raoul stood, trying to balance himself, his head still dizzy from the lack of oxygen. In terror he realized then, that the grunting had stopped, and everything was now silent. The Viscount slowly turned his head towards _the monster_ , only to see those two vengeful, terrifying golden eyes staring back at him.

The two had stared at each other for quite some time, until the Phantom had found his voice.

"Go," his voice quavered. Those faces were still floating in front of him, torturing him, mocking him… He felt his own tears soak the material of his mask.

The Viscount squinted, looking at the monster ingeniously, as if contemplating if _the beast_ had planned something and was trying to lead him into a trap.

The Phantom's hands curled into tight fists as he shouted. "GO, NOW!"

The Viscount, terrified by the sudden outburst, turned and ran away, away from the horrid cellar, his step still tottering.

"AND NEVER COME BACK, **VISCOUNT!** " Erik shouted, spitting the last word as if it were the worst insult that existed on Earth.

He sighed and lowered himself on the floor, now weeping openly. Immense guilt penetrated his broken heart like a spear, clouding his mind, as he hugged himself with his gaunt arms.

* * *

He could not know how much time he had spent like this, wallowing in despair, guilt and self-loathing. To think only: after going nearly twenty years without killing a single soul, he had suddenly felt the same murderous urge… And it brought back such painful memories… _Persia..._

Slowly, he stood. His glance weakly ran over the place, where the secret passage, leading to the Torture Chamber, was hidden. His thoughts returned to Christine. Christine…

It was no use, he thought meekly. Even if he forced her out of her room, she would run back and lock herself up again, or simply refuse to eat. And he most certainly could not force-feed her. Nevertheless, he at least decided to try.

Hesitantly, he brushed his hand across the trigger hidden in stone and jumped into the opened trapdoor. The landing came smooth, painless and silent, as usual.

He went forward, not losing his orientation for a split second, and knocked on the wall that connected to the Louis-Philippe room.

* * *

In her chamber, Christine was battling the immense hunger. It had somewhat dulled as the evening came, but the horrid feeling of her guts pressing against her spine had never gone away, as she curled on her bed in an attempt to forget about food.

One can imagine her reaction, when she heard three timid signature knocks at the wall of her room.

She jolted up, wondering if she had begun hallucinating. There was no door in that direction. How could someone knock from behind a solid wall?...

Then, _his_ voice, Erik's voice, could be heard. "Christine? It is I, your Erik. ...May I come in?"

"NO!" came her shouted reply. He winced at the shriek. "I… I am not decent!" she added after a second of strained silence.

"Erik will wait," he said nonchalantly and leaned against the mirror wall, crossing his hands on his chest.

* * *

...Half an hour passed. He had been hearing rustling through the wall, though there had been no indication that he could enter.

"Christine, are you _quite_ decent yet?" he asked with a bit of annoyance.

"N-no," came her muffled reply. "N-not yet." Maybe, if she prolonged his entrance, he would go back the way he came?...

"Alright," he shrugged and waited.

Another fifteen minutes passed. His patience was wearing thin.

"Christine, exactly for how long are you intending to keep me here?"

"N-not for long..." she said.

A fist collided with the mirrored surface with a loud clank. Christine shrieked.

"CHRISTINE, STOP **LYING!** " he shouted. "I CAN SENSE YOUR FILTHY LIES FROM A **MILE** AWAY! NOW **LET ME PASS!** "

"LEAVE! LEAVE ME **ALONE!** " she cried. Well, at least she was honest. His anger rose.

"My DARLING," his voice seethed with fury, "I cannot LEAVE. I am in the _'Torture Chamber'_ right now, and the ONLY way out lies through YOUR room, now **please** will you let me come out?!"

After a few seconds of silence, her timid voice could be heard, sounding suspiciously much closer. "Y-you… You are not going to… t-to force me?... force me come out of my room?"

He nearly choked at her words.

"Christine! WHAT in the BLASTED WORLD gave you that absolutely and utterly INCREDULOUS idea?!" he told her with a bit more force than originally intended. "Of COURSE I am not going to force you to do anything, I respect your wishes!"

"No, you don't," came her quiet reply. He froze.

He groaned then and brought his hands up to massage his temples that began to pulsate with pain.

"Christine," came his reply. "Christine, despite what you may think… I do respect you, truly. Without you I would die. How could I not respect you? Please, Christine..."

She looked around frantically. She was standing in front of the wall opposite to the door that led to the bathroom. She could try to cover her ears with a pillow, but inside she knew that it would not stop his voice from reaching her mind. Nothing would.

Nevertheless, she brought up her hands to cover them. No use. She could still hear his hypnotizing voice… It was too much. And wasn't he right anyway? Haha, yes, of course, right… Everything he said was true…

She sniffed and nodded before answering. "...You may enter, Erik."

She watched in surprise as a part of her wall disappeared into darkness and gave way to the imposing, tall figure that stood in the narrow doorway. Golden eyes locked with her sky-blue ones; they seemed to mesmerize… She blinked and looked away. What now?

He simply stared at her for a while, not sure what to do. She complied by his request; there was nothing to fight for, nothing to argue about any longer; she was _his_ , completely and irrevocably _his_ , and certainly no Viscount held the power to take her from him. One of his demons whispered a gruesome, vile thought in his ear, but Erik brushed the little pest away. Only the gentlest and kindest of his behaviours could win him a chance with his beloved.

Still, he decided to try.

One of his bony hands reached out towards her. She backed away instinctively, remembering the deadly chill and the horrible smell of his fingers. _A corpse, indeed._

The hand that reached out froze in mid-air, and he spoke. "Christine, please… My dear… Come with me… Christine cannot be hungry… She must be comfortable and happy… Oh, dear, sweet Christine, what can I do to make you happy?" His thin shoulders heaved, and a tear slid from beneath the mask and fell, disappearing in the folds of his suit.

Christine backed away even more, bumping into the wall. With horror she touched the wallpaper clad surface behind her to search for a door. It was hidden well… She could not grope the edge, and she seemed to forget, where exactly it was. She closed her eyes. There was nowhere to run.

* * *

 _Hopelessness._

What a terrifying word.

What a terrifying feeling it signifies.

What a horrible meaning lies beneath and between those letters, seeping through their contours, like black, viscid ooze.

One cannot imagine a feeling more devastating; it ruins your soul from within, and all you can feel is the rumble of your petty hopes and pretty dreams coming down in crumbles.

It hurts so much, you can almost hear it.

He knew hopelessness; it was his faithful companion throughout his whole wretched and pitiful existence, along with morbid determination and a controversial will to live.

She came to know hopelessness fairly recently. She had had the first taste of it when her father had withered away.

And now she was trapped in hell, deep beneath the earth with a monster, who was obsessed with her and claimed to love her with all his vile black heart.

Only his heart wasn't all blackness and despair. But she was too frightened to see it.

"...Christine, please…"

She opened her eyes.

He was still there, his right arm outstretched towards her, breath ragged, his pleading golden eyes full of turmoil and anguish.

She felt numb. Absentmindedly she felt herself nodding. Then she was faintly aware of him approaching her, his cold bony hands gripping her upper arms, of this awful smell of decay he always carried with him…

She was led into the drawing-room and seated at a small table covered with starched tablecloth. Erik disappeared for a second, but she found herself unable to care. A cup of hot herbal tea was placed then in front of her. She looked at it as if it was an elaborate piece of machinery and looked up at Erik with confusion.

He sighed and gestured towards the steaming cup. "Drink, Christine."

Obediently she picked up the cup and took a sip. Strong taste and smell of herbs and honey assaulted her senses, and the hot liquid burnt her tongue, but she stayed silent. In the meantime, Erik disappeared once again.

She stared into nothingness, sipping her tea, lost in her thoughts and her feelings as the minutes crept by. When the cup was half-empty (or half-full?), a bony hand placed an enormous plate with an elaborate dish in front of her.

Christine blinked at it. It looked as if brought from a high-class restaurant or something: Caesar salad with traditional dressing with its white pieces of feta cheese and slices of fresh greenery perked up at her, a slice of mildly fried meat oozing with fragrant juice and yellow rice, smelling with carry; the sides of the plate were adorned with parmesan and some strange white sauce with little pieces of herbage that could be barely distinguished. A large glass of red wine was placed right beside the dish.

Christine turned her head the second time and looked up at Erik with even more confusion. He stood there, beside her, hands folded in front of him, as if he were a servant or a waiter in a grand restaurant where that dish had been served.

She sighed and turned back, picking up the fork. She had lost once more.


	3. Chapter 3: Another Morning

**Forevermore, Chapter 3.**

Her eyes shot open as she sat up on her bed, panting, bathed in sweat. She moaned, pressing her hand into her wet forehead.

A nightmare.

She slowly rose and stood, her feet bare upon the rug, curling her toes against the soft, pleasant material, her white silky nightgown flowing behind her. She tentatively went up to one of the gas lamps in the room and lit it - the small flame appeared and began its fiery dance in its prison of glass, throwing shadows against the walls, and the shadows shifted and moved as if alive. She shivered.

For a moment, she drew near to the door that led into the corridor to listen to the noises outside. What if he was there? He would want her to emerge from her room to have breakfast...

But everything was quiet. No musical instrument could be heard, and there were no noises, no commotion; to be honest, the house felt somewhat... empty. Christine sighed, feeling great relief. Perhaps she would be granted a few hours of much needed solitude.

She opened one of the drawers in her vanity and picked up a pair of extremely sharp scissors - the same pair of scissors she had used for self-defense before, when she had come here for the first time, and so, so utterly afraid that Erik would harm her... The possibility seemed all the more distant now, because, even in his worst moments of anger, all he had done was pull at her hair a bit. She huffed a small laugh. It was almost adorable.

Still, one could not be too prepared. Erik could be back at any moment, bursting through her door and demanding her presence. Thus the scissors traveled with her to her bathroom.

She closed the door, frowning at the fact that her bathroom did not have a lock. Her room did, and that, apparently, would have to suffice. Still, she did not feel safe.

 _'Safe from whom?'_ entered an unfamiliar voice in her head.

 _'From **him** ,'_ she replied in her mind, as she plugged the drain at the bottom of the tub and turned on the hot water.

 _'Ah, but has he ever harmed you?_ ' the voice chirped.

 _'No, but he is still capable of that, I'm sure.'_ She chewed on her lip. She hadn't had an argument with herself for a very, very long time.

 _'Why are you so sure?'_ the voice persisted.

 _'I have this awful feeling. I'm so confused and tired and I don't know anything.'_ Her brow furrowed. Hadn't she just woken up?

 _'You have to sort out your feelings, Christine. Your indecisiveness isn't going to help anyone, you know. It is most logical to pick a side and stick with it. Deal with the situation, girl.'_

She froze. It was the voice of reason, she realized.

For so long she had been following her feelings, her intuition, doing whatever her heart told her. She was used to it; no one had ever taught her otherwise. Her father told her fairy stories and brought them to life with the sweet sound of his violin; Professor and Mamma Valerius spoiled her; in the conservatoire she was a ghost, a shadow of her former self, unable to concentrate on the present, only able to dwell on the past...

 _Maybe it was time to grow up?_

The child Christine would be scared of Erik, would take scissors with her to her bathroom and threaten the monster to take her own life should he touch her. She would scream and beg and only make things worse.

The adult Christine, however, would not be scared, would not lose her dignity, would not make threats or unnecessary accusations. She would fight and find a way into that madman's heart and mind and then act in her best interest. She would leave forever.

The thought of being able to live her normal life again thrilled her. Waking up in the early morning, preparing and eating breakfast, bringing food to Mamma Valerius, chatting a bit with Colette, the part-time maid that helped take care of Mamma, dressing up, leaving for work, going through the day's rehearsal schedule, having lessons with her Angel...

...Ah. But there was no Angel anymore, was there, she thought bitterly. She missed her old routine so dearly... Now, there was only uncertainty. Only fear of what may come. And even though that tiny voice of reason whispered to her various thoughts of contentment, she was still wary. She still felt trapped. And she hated it.

Confused even further, Christine closed the tap and shed her nightgown and her unmentionables. Then she lifted her leg gingerly and climbed into the now full bath tub, shivering and gasping from delight as she felt her skin tingle from being submerged into hot water. Her body relaxed, all tension gone from her muscles, and, as a result, her mind relaxed, too: all unpleasant thoughts vanished from her head, and she closed her eyes to revel in the bliss of the heavenly warmth that surrounded her.

* * *

When she felt the first stirrings of dreams appear in her head in forms of shapes and colours and distant voices, she opened her eyes. She would not let herself fall asleep in a bathtub. And the water had begun to grow cold, anyway.

She took a piece of aloe scented soap from a nearby table and started washing her hair with it, all the while thinking back to the good old times when she had been blissfully unaware of what hid beneath the Voice's façade, what was hidden beneath that horrible, intimidating black mask.

Her voice lessons were the only thing that she looked up to in her daily routine. The angelic voice would greet her, ask her about her health and her day, and then, accompanied by mesmerizing music, sounds, elicited by the unseen violin, she would have been led through her usual vocal exercises, and then the Voice would work with her on her main pieces, mostly solo arias, sometimes duets, and he would gently point out her mistakes, ask her to start again, calm her and soothe her if she ever became frustrated and came down in tears… And then…

She shivered, even though it was hot in the bathroom; heavy clouds of water vapour hung in the air, condensing upon the ceramic tiles in little water drops. She would never be able to forget that horrid visage… That face that was hardly a face. Even though she had seen it only once, her brain had memorized every single detail, every single crevasse, every single scar.

It was _horrible_. No, there are faces that are just aesthetically unpleasant to look at, but this one is a thousand times more horrid. It looked like a rotting skull to her. Protruding cheekbones looked so unhealthy, and the cheeks were sunken so deeply, that at times it seemed that he had none, that, if he turned, she would see a row of teeth, showing through the holes in the stretched skin. She, of course, could see none, for his cheeks were quite whole, even if sunken and covered with old scars. Some of said scars went up to his eyes, tipping over the edge; his eyes were sunken, too, and resembled two empty sockets that one could see in a real skull; only two bright, shining, terrifyingly _aware_ golden eyes seemed to show that this freak of nature had yet to become a real corpse. The absence of a nose was outright _disgusting_ , making her sick every time the face came up in her memory. A hole instead of a nose, a wide crevasse that began below a small, similarly scarred bump of flesh, went down his face and dissolved into two slits somewhere above his mouth. Oh, his mouth was relatively normal, if not counting the fact that his lips were dry, thin and bleak, nearly invisible, and scarred just as the rest of his face, with scars crossing them vertically and sometimes under a certain angle. The same sort of scarring was on his sharp, defined chin and jaw, and, to be honest, it looked like he was hit there a good number of times. His high forehead was wrinkled, with several but less scars crossing it; some of the bleak lines went up to his hairline and disappeared there in a forest of sparse, but thick, clean and neatly combed black hair.

She took a few deep breaths. She felt ready to vomit. Seriously, how could nature create something so... utterly disgusting? Pleading her stomach to wait until she could get to a toilet, she scrubbed her skin until it resembled wild red roses in colour, climbed out of the water, dried herself with fresh, clean towels and put on her nightgown, leaving her unmentionables in a neat pile in a corner.

Her gaze locked with the toilet. Her stomach had somewhat calmed down; she felt she couldn't empty it even if she tried. So she instead opened the door to her room, picked up the scissors and held them steadily in her right hand.

She stopped in the doorway, listening to the ambience of the little house on the lake. Everything was quiet. 'Still no one,' Christine thought with relief and, tucking her scissors into a nearby drawer, padded to her closet in search of a fresh day dress.

* * *

When she finally emerged from her room, the house was still quiet. Thinking it strange, she walked through every single room of the house (except for the ones that were locked, but no noise could be heard from behind those ones either) in order to make sure that no one was 'home'...

She stopped in the middle of the drawing-room. The house was indeed empty. She was completely alone. She wasn't sure what to make of it. Be happy and enjoy the rest of her solitude, of those few hours when his intense stare is not upon her? Or wring her hands in anguish and worry about what horrors he may be doing up there, while she is here, below? What horrors could he be doing in her name…

She shook her head in terror. Oh, she would not think of such things. If she did, she would surely go mad. Her mind was already dizzy. She decided to occupy her thoughts with something less morbid and wandered to the enormous bookcase that adorned one of the walls of the little room and stood next to the rosewood piano. Her gaze wandered around the shelves, searching for some familiar titles.

Finally, she chose to read an épopée in four gigantic volumes by the Russian writer Tolstoy - 'War and Peace'. She struggled to stay on her feet as she pulled the first tremendous tome, marked by the Roman numeral "I", from the tightly assembled collection of other books. She hefted the volume to one of the armchairs near the fireplace and, flashing a glance at the fire that crackled quietly in its merry dance, blew the dust from the cover and opened the first page.

All too soon, she lost herself in the world of the beginning of the nineteenth century, attentively following the story of the Bezukhovs, Bolkonskys, Rostovs, Kuragins and countless other characters…

* * *

That morning Erik had taken off early to have a scheduled meeting with the Daroga. The retired policeman thought himself an overseer, a warden that must look out for the Phantom's misbehaviour. The said Phantom snorted. As if anyone could stop him from creating chaos if he wished for it.

Well, maybe there was one person who could stop him. If Christine Daaé herself expressed a wish for him not to cause goddamn humanity any more harm or bother, he would listen to her. However, the poor girl was far too frightened to ask anything of such nature of him.

And the other person… The one who had an annoying habit of wandering the secret passages of the opera house, parading himself as if he were a worthy adversary to the Phantom of the Opera. Erik scoffed. Of course he was superior to the shadow man in every way, but he couldn't help but quietly dive further into the darkness whenever he came by, stalking the silent corridors in a continuous, eternal search for the opera ghost. Erik's keen eyesight and vast knowledge had told him earlier that the man was a trained fighter, and his instincts told him to keep himself as far as possible from him.

He had even followed the man to his residence, to attempt to sneak in and learn something of use. The shadow man, as it had turned out, was working with the managers, a mercenary of sorts, also working for secret police. Erik had suspected as such, and so his thoughts on the rather pressing matter had been proved right.

Since then, Erik had thought it the best course of action to stay out of the shadow's way and pretend that he, the infamous O.G., did not exist. The man did not seem to give up so easily, though. And so the two of them were locked in a strange game of cat-and-mouse. Erik enjoyed it, though. It pumped adrenaline into his aging blood and helped him keep his instincts sharp. In some ways, he thought he was glad the shadow man was there to keep things interesting. Oh, but what an utter annoyance that man sometimes was!

In his musings, he did not notice as he approached the other bank of the lake. He could just make out the figure on the other side, standing tall and regal, arms crossed and head held high. The Phantom scoffed. The Daroga acted as such an old booby sometimes.

Erik jumped out of the boat and approached the Persian in a few long, quick strides.

"Daroga," he started, "for how much long must we keep following this annoying routine? You should well know by now that Erik does not plan on doing anything bad to your precious humanity. You cannot possibly enjoy going through such pains every now and then to simply meet an old acquaintance. And it would be nice if you spared Erik your annoying presence." And he dramatically waved his hand, as if shooing away a fly.

The Persian seemed unperturbed by this. "Erik," he said, "I came to inquire about Mademoiselle Daaé."

Erik sighed and crossed his arms and his chest, taking on a defensive stance. "What about the good Mademoiselle Daaé?"

The Daroga inwardly rolled his eyes. "She is missing."

Erik scoffed. For the third time that day. The free velvet of the lower part of his rather fashionable mask fluttered under his forceful breath, uncovering the chin for a split second. "And why would you suppose, you great booby, that Erik of all people would know about her whereabouts? Mademoiselle Daaé is a free woman, you know. She is free to come and go as she wishes." He folded his skeletal hands, suddenly uncomfortable with this conversation.

The Daroga saw right through his facade. "She is free to come and go... to your house? So you HAVE granted her access, Erik? You of all people should know that this is entirely inappropriate, and-"

"And you of all people should know to mind your own goddamn business, Daroga," Erik growled with such intensity that the Persian took a few steps back.

"Allah be merciful on you! You have KIDNAPPED the poor girl, for god's sake!"

"She came willingly, Daroga! She DID! She came willingly, and she loves me for who I am! She loves Erik! I offered her to take her back, but she refused and stayed! Stayed with ME!" he shouted, proudly hitting his bony chest with his fist. "This will surely end in marriage, Daroga, have I not told you that? And you will be the first one to get an invitation... HA! As if I would invite ANYONE of the damned human race to MY wedding! You will not get anything, Daroga, you can calm down," he chuckled, waving one of his hands in the air, despite the fact that the Daroga had remained absolutely calm throughout the entirety of their conversation.

The Persian eyed Erik with disdain. "Is that what you are planning to do with her? I say, what if the girl does not… reciprocate your feelings? Have you thought about that? You would force marriage upon the poor soul? Make her go to the altar through force? This is madness, Erik! Come to your senses!"

The Phantom dropped his head back and laughed, the awful sound resonating throughout the sewers.

After a minute or so, the menacing, madman's laugh turned into a chuckle, and Erik was able to speak.

"Oh, Daroga, hee hee, where, hah, oh, just WHERE would you get such a STUPID idea? Of course she reciprocates my feelings! Would she willingly go with me to my house and willingly remain there, should that not have been the truth? And what kind of a monster are you thinking me to be? Forcing Christine to wed me? That was not in my most cruel and frightening dreams, Daroga! I think it is you that should come to your senses here, you Persian booby. I suppose you had too much morphine last night. Tough times, Daroga? Hee hee. Morphine is not good for your health. And neither is opium, you know. You should give the half of your supplies to me." He chuckled again. "I should mix them together and call the substance morphium. Wouldn't THAT be fun."

He grinned under his mask, but his mood quickly sobered. "...Daroga, what do you think the boy is doing here?"

The Daroga, quickly recovering from the madman's speech, asked incredulously: "...The boy?"

"Daroga, surely you cannot be THAT stupid," Erik barked. "I am speaking of our dear Viscount, Raoul de Changy."

The Persian swallowed. "As far as I know, he might be looking for Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Erik's answering gaze could only be described as scorching.

The Daroga tugged on his collar. "I… seriously have no idea, Erik."

"Some help you are, you old cop!" Erik spit. "The popinjay is supposed to be far, far away! Actually, at the North Pole itself! It seems he has forgotten something here."

"Something… or someone?" asked the Persian with a snarl.

"Yes, someone. Someone female, with blonde hair and blue eyes, someone with a most marvelous singing voice. Someone… exceptionally beautiful." The further Erik spoke, the gentler and more far-off his voice became. He turned his head and gazed towards the ebony waters of the underground lake. His golden eyes glimmered with a strange tint of amber.

Suddenly, a sob racked his skeletal body. "Why does everyone keep trying to take her away from me, Daroga? Why? Do they want to see Erik suffer? Do they enjoy the thought of him rotting away in a damp dungeon?" He hung his head. "Daroga, all I ever really wanted was happiness and a chance to live a normal life. As a normal man… In a normal house, with windows and… and doors, you know. ...And with a normal wife, waiting for my at home each evening I came from work… Normal work. You know, I think I would be an architect. And a composer in my free time. I would sell my works… Oh, Daroga, what a wonderful dream it is…"

For a few minutes only silence reigned in the darkness, filled by occasional lamenting sobs that threatened to turn into wails.

The Daroga stood there with tears swimming in his jade eyes, dumbfounded and somewhat awestruck. For so long he had feared that Erik was stripped of all humanity completely, embracing the madness with frightening ardour. But only humans could shed tears and lament. What the Persian had witnessed just now was a humane, broken part of Erik's soul that was hidden deep beneath the covers of the bitter, mad darkness, too damaged and too fragile to be kept on the outside.

He never thought he would see this side of Erik again.

Before the memories could take hold of him, he launched forward and grabbed Erik by his terribly thin shoulders, trying to coax the broken man to look up at him.

"Erik, look at me," the Persian said, absentmindedly aware that he was grabbing the Phantom by the shoulders. "Look at me. I believe you. I believe you, Erik. I understand. You are not a monster, Erik."

Erik raised his head and looked at the Daroga with bloodshot eyes as if the Persian were a madman. However, the old policeman did not yield.

"I know that somewhere deep inside you are a good man, Erik. That you can be someone who is worthy of Mademoiselle Daaé. Erik, I think that you are not yet too far gone. She may just be the one to bring the human in you back. Just, please…" The Persian let go of Erik's shoulders and stepped back a bit. "...Please, tread lightly. Alright? Do not do anything that may break the brittle balance your soul is in. Most of all, do not take another's life. Promise me that, Erik." The Daroga sighed and placed his hands in his pockets. "You never did, you know. Last time you told me that promises were for fools."

Piercing golden eyes stared back at the old Persian with such intensity, that it seemed that they wanted to rip his soul out on the end of the ethereal blade and examine it to try and find out just what the hell had just happened.

Finally, Erik managed to open his mouth and speak in a voice that sounded almost like it was a voice of another person altogether: raspy and breathy, like sandpaper, not at all a smooth and floating cadence of his angelic tenor.

"I… I promise you, Daroga. I will not kill a single soul."


	4. Chapter 4: Madness

**Forevermore, Chapter 4.**

" _I… I promise you, Daroga. I will not kill a single soul."_

Those words settled in Erik's stomach, weighing down his soul. _Brilliant._ Just what he needed: _another_ stupid promise. Well, it wasn't like he had given any promises, but still, he found that he hated the pressure that hung on his being like horrible metal chains. To be obliged to do or not do something, to be bound by something was a terrible feeling. So he wallowed in sulking and pretending to lessen the discomfort that surfaced.

The Persian man in front of him, on the contrary, seemed elated, and crossed his arms on his chest with vivid satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he looked up at the Phantom. Erik felt ready to jump forward and squeeze those stupid, annoying jade eyes out of the man's skull. Maybe then the booby's face would resemble _the face of Death itself,_ the horrid abomination that _he_ , the Phantom, sported.

The Persian man, blinking with his aforementioned jade eyes still intact, raised his chin and smiled at the opera ghost.

"I knew it, Erik. I knew it. Yes. As long as you sin out of necessity, but not of your own wish, you are redeemable."

"What makes you think that _I_ have not killed of my own wish, you idiot?" the ghost growled, gritting his teeth.

The Daroga laughed merrily at the display.

"I do not doubt that. You just couldn't have known the other, more… peaceful means of solving problems. And then you outright refused to use them." The grin disappeared from the Persian's face, and the man squinted at the taller form in front of him. "It seems that you will finally have to."

Erik huffed and crossed his arms on his chest. "I have never been a pacifist, you booby."

"Well, it looks like you do not have much of a choice." Only then the Daroga realized, that he could try to manipulate Erik with this newfound knowledge. "Kill a human, throw a violent fit, and Mademoiselle Daaé will be lost to you forever."

Erik found himself unable to say or do anything other than nod his head in agreement. Because, after all, his old acquaintance was quite correct. Christine could not love a monster. But she could love a man.

And that thought stuck with him, looming over all his thoughts like an omniscient shadow.

The Daroga and Erik exchanged parting words, and both men set back on their own tracks: the Persian - up above, in the world of living marble, the Phantom - down below, in the world of dead cobblestone. The Persian returned to his apartment on Rue de Rivoli; the Phantom decided that another roundabout was in order and ventured further into the cellars to check every single nook and cranny for trespassers.

He had foolishly assumed that everything would be calm and silent, as usual. He would later think himself an idiot for doing so.

For in his kingdom of melted fantasies, dead dreams and dusty creations that filled up the entire expanse of the third cellar, he once again felt that alien presence.

 _Of course_ , he sneered, as he quietly slid further into the shadows. _The boy is back._

And, apparently, this time the damned blond-haired hero brought a few confederates to gallivant around with. _Stupid children._

Climbing on the decayed and mostly unstable dusty stage sets definitely wasn't an option, so he moved between the decorations instead, gliding through the air effortlessly and silently. It was a trick he had learnt the earliest, when he had been just a child: to steal food that is so needed for mere survival, one absolutely _must_ learn to be invisible.

This skill had stuck with him throughout the entirety of his lengthy existence, and he still found it useful in various situations. After all, it was not a bad thing to have an advantage of seeming ubiquitous or appearing inconspicuous, of having the air of being a phantom.

The lanterns that the intruders held high above their heads illuminated the area, chasing away the eternal darkness that reigned in the cellars. Erik winced at the sight of this intrusion. How dare they defile the serenity of his abode? The lasso in the right inner pocket of his cloak itched and begged to be used. However, he simply passed his hand over it, giving the deadly string a slight brush with his gloved fingertips. _It was not the right way. Not anymore._

He did not have to chase away the fop and his lapdogs if they went away themselves.

So he sat and waited.

Soon, the men came so close that he could distinguish their words in the sea of the strong echo they created.

"Monsieur, are you sure this is the right place?"

"I am more than sure, officer! This is the place where the monster tried to kill me!"

The dashing blonde self-proclaimed hero jumped forward excitedly and pointed his chubby finger at the spot between the stage sets where the yesterday's battle had taken place. Erik winced. _Far too close…_ The lasso began to call for his fingers again. He refused.

The three officers that the young de Chagny had brought with him looked between themselves and frowned.

"Well," said one of them, the tallest one, dark-haired, with narrow shoulders, and with an oriental-style beard, "Let us begin to investigate then. If everything has happened, like you said, Monsieur le Vicomte, then, I have no doubt, the opera ghost was most likely guarding something, be it the entrance to his secret lair, as you say, or something else. And, be assured, we will find it."

The four men split and began to search the place, checking every single corner and crevice for anything that looked out of place.

In his hiding place, the Phantom began to stir once more. His mind screamed at him, a deafening roar to his ears: ' _What are you doing?! They are going to find the switch! The entrance to the Torture Chamber! You cannot take such risks! Use it! Use the lasso! Kill them! Eradicate them! Erase the threat to your existence! Kill them! Kill them! KILL THEM!'_

He pressed his palms into his ears to try to silence the chant that seemed to grow into a sea of thousands of voices in his head.

The sound of approaching footsteps silenced those howls immediately, glaciating his inner turmoil. He stepped further into the shadows, as the bulky officer squinted, trying to make out the faint outlines of various objects in the unrelenting abysmal darkness. The voices returned then, almost instantly, but reduced to mere whispers, still trying to coax him to launch forward and strangle the poor, ignorant policeman. His hands began to tremble, and he pushed them into the folds of his cloak to seize and conceal the movement. _No, no. Please, no. It cannot be Mazandaran all over again._

After a moment the bulky officer shrugged and moved away, motioning to his comrades that this particular area was clear. The tension in Erik's shoulders recoiled in the wake of blessed relief, but returned immediately, when one of the gendarmes leaned upon the very wall which hid the switch.

The Phantom felt himself inhale sharply. If that officer moved his hand just a bit to the right and pressed into the seemingly unrelenting stone, the brick would give way, and the passageway to the Torture Chamber would be discovered…

But the policeman simply passed his hand over the stone wall and moved forward to check the small space behind a stage set.

The opera ghost relaxed. Lady Luck was still on his side.

After nearly an hour of futile searching, as the Phantom noticed, the policemen began to grow weary and seemingly doubtful of the Viscount's resolve. The young man, however, appeared only more determined than before to ransack the whole five cellars and overturn every single stone to find and execute the ominous monster that preyed on his beloved. The four intruders decided to move on with their search; the opera ghost followed not far behind, now more set on amusing himself by watching the Viscount and the officers waste their time on trying to find something they would never discover.

The small group of four moved from room to room, checking thoroughly behind every piece of scenery for a hidden switch, or a button, or anything of the sort. They moved stage sets, different pieces, trying to trigger some concealed mechanism that would open a secret door… but to no avail.

Finally, after another hour of fruitless hunt, the officers became outright frustrated.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, there is nothing here. We have been stuck in this cellar for more than two hours, and have still found nothing!" shouted the officer with the oriental-style beard.

"I am quite sure that the assault has taken place here, Monsieur Beaufort! The monster was trying to keep me from finding something, I assure you!" yelled the Viscount.

"If there _was_ a monster," snorted one of the officers, the bulky one, swarthy and with thick, lush, brown whiskers. His redhead companion, slightly shorter and far thinner in his complexion, chuckled in a rich baritone.

The Viscount turned abruptly to face the two officers, a distraught expression glued on his face. "Excuse me?"

Behind de Chagny's back, Beaufort sighed, made a wide, dramatic gesture and pinched the bridge of his nose. His comrades stifled another laugh.

Poor Raoul whirled around, bewildered, trying to grasp the reason behind all this amusement.

"Gentlemen, I assure you, this is no laughing matter! Furthermore, this a very serious situation! We all could be in danger!"

The three officers only laughed, loudly and merrily, ignoring the Viscount's pleas to stay quiet. In his hiding place, the Phantom emitted a quiet snicker as well.

"Gentlemen, I ask you to see reason!" beseeched the poor dashing blonde self-proclaimed hero. "We must resume our search, find the secret entrance, kill this monster and save—"

"Monsieur le Vicomte, are you so sure that there is, in actuality, a monster, who has bewitched and entrapped your beloved Mademoiselle Daaé? For all I know, she could be hiding from your unwanted attentions with her _lover_ ," snickered the bulky officer with the brown whiskers.

His slightly shorter ginger companion gave him a playful shove to the side. "Plamondon, watch your mouth!"

"My friend, I am a busy man and have no time to deal with Monsieur le Vicomte's love problems," countered Plamondon with a grin.

Beaufort cut them off with a sharp, authoritative wave of hand, stepping closer.

"As much as I hate my colleague's rudeness, and I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Vicomte, I must admit that he is quite correct," proclaimed the officer with an accusing air. "This search has proved itself futile; we must return and see to our duties. It would do well for you to exploit hired help; a private detective, or a sleuth. You can contact the local Sûreté office for information, they can recommend a few experts, very skilled and experienced people. Plamondon, Lavoie, _partons d'ici._ "

With these few words, the three officers briefly saluted to the young Viscount and left for the nearest exit.

Raoul's lower lip trembled, and he shouted so shrilly that the resonating sound made the tops of the stage sets waver a bit. "THEN **GO**! YOU WEREN'T ANY HELP TO ME ANYWAYS! GOOD **RIDDANCE**! **YOU BUNCH OF BUFFOONS!** "

He made a forceful kick forward with his foot and sent a cloud of ancient dust flying into the air. The dust reached his nostrils and made him cough and sneeze violently. The Phantom almost felt sorry for the boy. _Almost._

The Viscount emitted a loud, pitiful whimper and slid down the fake wooden wall that was painted to take on the appearance of an old lithic tower. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow and stayed like that, silent and unmoving.

After quite some time, a faint sound of swirling cloth caught his attention. He raised his head only to lock his red-rimmed eyes with icily scorching golden ones.

The Viscount gasped and moved away with hurry, trying to put as much more distance as possible between himself and the _monster_. The _monster_ , however, seemed simply annoyed with this display of fear… as if he were quite _used_ to it.

They eyed each other for a long moment, and then the silence that had until then been punctuated only by the heaving breaths coming from the young de Chagny was pierced by a fierceful whisper full of hatred and aversion.

" _Vicomte."_

The young man gulped and acknowledged his rival. "Phantom."

The opera ghost seethed with restrained anger. "I have told you to keep away from MY domain. You have foolishly returned—"

Quiet sounds of fumbling pulled Erik out of his anger that was slowly beginning to swallow his consciousness and attracted his attention to the object that the Viscount had pulled out of his pocket. _Oh. How interesting._

The boy was holding him at gun point.

The Phantom's eyes went from the charged pistol to the Viscount's strangely determined face, gleamed with sickening amusement and then disappeared altogether, as he firstly doubled over and then leaned backwards, putting his hands on his concave stomach, nearly choking on that awful, terrifying, evil laughter that suddenly began to flow out of his mouth and resonated horribly within the spacious walls of the cellars.

That terrible laughter made the Viscount shiver from fear.

The Phantom finally regained some of the poise after several moments and spoke, making a show out of wiping the non-existent tears from the corners of his golden eyes.

"What do you think you're doing, pointing that PEASHOOTER of yours at ME?! Do you really suppose a bullet could hurt a GHOST?" He doubled over in another laughing fit.

The aforementioned _peashooter_ trembled in Viscount's hands.

With a loud sigh, the Phantom regained his rigid, straight posture and directed his mocking gaze on the man before him.

"Do not even THINK of pulling the trigger, boy," stated he in a foreboding, threatening voice. "In your state, you will most surely miss." He slowly cocked his head a little bit to the right. "Or your little pitiful weapon could misfire," he said with a smile appearing in his tone, deliberately stretching the words, adding to the atmosphere of pure terror. "Wouldn't it be so, so HORRIBLE? To lose a limb, or a half of your precious, handsome face to an explosion?" The grin was evident in his voice now, sounding incredibly condescending, as if he were speaking to a child; his eyes sparkled like a berserk's; he looked positively _insane_. "WE WOULDN'T WANT YOU TO HURT YOURSELF, NOW WOULD WE?"

The sound of the Phantom's voice, accentuated by the vast echo, cut through the steady, overwhelming beat of blood pounding in the Viscount's ears. His vision began to waver from tears of fear; his bared teeth chattered; his hands trembled even more violently.

The Phantom's grin under his mask widened even more. He had once again triumphed in a mind game: the boy had been thoroughly destabilized, and his mind had been prepared for the manipulations that would follow.

"Now do everyone a favour, BOY, and put that PEASHOOTER of yours down," said he in an extremely authoritative, commanding tone, fully aware of the effect that his voice would have on the trembling de Chagny... and anticipating it.

The Viscount, retaining the eye contact with the horrifying apparition before him, obediently lowered his pistol until it collided softly with the lithic floor. The sound, however, pulled him out of the trance that the Phantom had pushed him into and made him yelp and look incredulously at his hand that had moved seemingly of its own accord. _Was that?..._

A low chuckle from his adversary made the Viscount raise his head with a sharp movement. The pseudo-ghost eyed him with scrutiny, evidently amused. "Scared?" he asked. The terrified look on the boy's face told him the obvious answer. "Good," the Phantom whispered eerily. "You should be."

The Viscount grabbed the handgun and slowly began to stand up. The Phantom watched him with wary eyes. The young man looked in the opera ghost's direction, but not quite _at him_ , almost as if he could see through him.

The Phantom, irritated by that, raised his voice again. "You try my patience, trying to be brave in the face of Death itself. Begone, boy!"

The Viscount raised his gun, pointing it at his adversary. "I. Am not. Afraid of you," he breathed.

Everything happened quickly. The Phantom made a swift motion, getting ready to throw the Punjab lasso in the direction of the boy. The Viscount's finger trembled before pulling the trigger.

The resounding shot was deafening.

* * *

In the drawing-room, Christine closed the heavy book with an aweary sigh and moved it from her lap onto the soft expanse of the couch she was sitting on. She had read twenty-two chapters already, and was very far into the fascinating story; she had had no idea that Russian literature could be so enrapturing…

Oh, but she felt like she had had enough of reading about trifling of high-society for now, and her eyes were hurting again... She decided to take a break. Christine shook her head and took in her surrounding, which were just a little bit blurry. Being short-sighted was certainly a curse, she thought with exasperation, as she tried to alleviate the tension behind her eyeballs by massaging her temples.

She stood and righted her skirts. No use in sitting around and doing nothing, she thought, as she left for the kitchen to boil some water and make some tea. Erik would surely come back at some point, she mused, and maybe, just maybe, he would like some tea when he did. Maybe he would drink it with her, and he would trust her again. Maybe then she would be one step closer to her freedom.

She set the kettle to boil and sat at the table to wait. Alas, she was restless. In a few moments after she found herself standing up and leaving for the drawing-room and once again tracing her fingertips upon the dusty spines of countless books in the enormous bookcase. Some spines looked old, ancient almost, while others looked new and positively untouched. She chose one frayed white spine with an abraded golden line in the middle and took out a book with huge yellow words "PHILOSOPHIÆ NATURALIS PRINCIPIA MATHEMATICA I" on its front. _Latin?_ She turned the cover and opened the book on the first page to look at the authorship. _Isaac Newton._ _The_ Isaac Newton? What was such a complicated sciential work doing on Erik's bookshelf?

She opened the book on a random page somewhere in the middle and gasped. The free edges were all covered in childish scribbles! Arrows were drawn to connect some words, and the drawings were all amended and supplemented. She narrowed her eyes a bit to try and distinguish the letters, but to no avail. The script was unreadable. Was _this_ _Erik's_ _penmanship?_

She closed the book and moved to put it back into its place on the bookshelf. Her hand stopped. Why had Erik been writing something in such a book? Surely it was a very valuable scientific work. Had he no respect for the work of such a reputable natural philosopher?

She shook her head. She should have no care for what Erik did and did not respect, but oh, she was absolutely _fuming_ inside, remembering those childish scribbles which were obviously correcting the famous formulae devised by one of the greatest minds of the planet. What was happening to her? She had never even expressed any interest for that scientist's works or biography, she had only learnt what was demanded of her as common knowledge; however, seeing what was almost surely Erik's handwriting amending what has been written far too long before both of them existed and which had probably served as a foundation for all modern science has lit a fire of fury within her that she could not or did not care to extinguish. How _dare_ he?! How _dare_ he defy history itself and assume himself more intelligent than the rest of the world?!

In her anger she grabbed the book with her hands, whirled around and threw it across the room with an infuriated yelp. The valuable work smacked into a commode and fell onto the carpeted floor, torn pages slowly fluttering to the ground.

Christine was breathing heavily as she realized what she had done in her outburst. She gasped; tears began falling, and they wouldn't stop, no matter how fervently Christine wiped at her eyes and cheeks - her bosom heaved heavily with shuddering breaths, her mind was reeling with panic and some other unnamed emotion, and she couldn't understand what was happening to her.

Somehow, she managed to reach the lounge and collapse on it, trying to take her breathing under control, burying her face in her arms and panicking more and more, because one question remained unanswered: was she going mad?


	5. Chapter 5

**Forevermore, Chapter 5.**

She had no idea how much time she'd spent laying on that lounge in the small drawing-room, shivering in fear of her own mind, until she heard the sound of the front door opening and something heavy stumbling in. A man's wailing accompanied the ruckus.

At first, she thought she was dreaming… but then the sound repeated, and she launched herself upwards from the couch, eyes darting around.

Erik was back!

She stood up and turned to the source of the sounds - and gasped in surprise, hand going up to cover her mouth.

"Christine, I am so sorry! Erik is so sorry, sorry…" the man wailed, as he wrenched his way into the small house upon the lake.

Christine watched his erratic movements with wide eyes. She began creeping backwards, sticking one hand out to feel her way through the room.

Erik was carrying something - a corpse! - on his back, and he was staggering under its weight. Christine couldn't quite tell whose corpse it was…

When the realization hit, she almost fainted. Raoul! Raoul de Chagny!

Erik's mask was gone, and his disfigured face, as Christine noticed, was a bleak teary mess. He stumbled closer and, clutching at Raoul's clothing, lowered him onto the couch; there was blood on the young man's forehead, trailing down his face, and his hand fell limply onto his chest…

"Erik is so sorry, Christine!"

Her mind went dizzy; her throat burned; tears welled up from her eyes as she went forth and fell onto her knees in front of the lounge, in front of Raoul's body. Why? Why was he here?! He should have been far, far away; what was he doing here?! Why was this happening? This must be a nightmare, a nightmare!

"Erik HAD to do it Christine, please, understand! He was going to fire a pistol at Erik!"

Christine clutched at Raoul's hand, tears rolling down her cheeks like rivulets - she could not believe it, did not WANT to believe it- her dear, sweet Raoul, gone, gone, gone!

"Erik HAD to knock the boy unconscious!"

The time stopped. Christine's sobs ceased, and she herself froze, becoming as still as a statue. Erik, who stood beside her, continued to cry, lurching forward.

A small giggle cut through the atmosphere.

Erik slowly turned his head and looked down at Christine, whose shoulders were trembling as the girlish laughter grew louder.

"...C-Christine?" he asked quietly.

And Christine erupted in crying, mad laughter.

Erik didn't know what to think - he could only stand there, stupefied. Why was she laughing? Has the girl gone mad?

Christine gripped the edge of the couch and shook her head, trying to get her laughter under control.

"Oh, sorry! Erik, sorry! I- I thought- Ahah!- that you- that you KILLED him, ahahah!"

Erik blinked a few times. A scowl slowly formed on his disfigured face.

"Erik might be a murderer, but he would never harm a person dear to Christine while she wears Erik's ring! Erik promised her so!"

He winced. Promises are for fools, huh? But wasn't he a fool of the most common kind, a love-stricken fool?

Christine, now only giggling, shook her head again and looked up at Erik, smile slowly disappearing.

"What do you mean, 'Erik might be a murderer'?"

She heard him. Erik's mouth fell half-open as he scrambled for any sort of answer. Finally, he closed his eyes and turned away, expression of pain clearly written on his disfigured features.

It only further piqued Christine's insatiable curiosity.

"Erik," she said, sitting up and tugging at his arm. "Erik, what did you mean? Tell me!"

However, no matter how much she asked, he could only shake his head in a negative response.

Christine pursed her lips. "Fine. But you will have to tell me later. I- I won't let you be until you tell me."

A little nod from him was everything she wanted - no movement followed, however, and as she watched him with almost overwhelming intensity, she realized that he could not promise her anything like that. She felt hurt, but, in a way, she understood. Mayhaps, the memories of his past were so horrible that it caused him great pain to remember, let alone speak of it.

She slowly let go of his sleeve and lowered her head. Her eyes fell onto Raoul's neutral facial expression and the blood trail that contrasted so starkly with his white, perfect skin. The sight was so disturbing that it was extremely difficult to believe that he was still alive.

She noticed that Raoul had dark circles beneath his eyes.

"...What happened, Erik?" she asked. When the silence was everything she got in return, she scowled and looked up at Erik again. "Answer."

That authoritatively spoken word seemed to pull him out of whatever darkness he'd been sinking into. His golden eyes darted from right to left a few times before settling somewhere on the opposite wall in front of him. He seemed to choose his words carefully, as the silence that followed was long… and suffocating.

"...I don't think it matters," he began. "However… The boy- I mean, de Chagny- the Vicomte- he wanted to find you, Christine. Apparently, he thought that you had been kidnapped… And so, he- he ventured into the cellars of the opera house… started searching for the secret entrance… to the Torture Chamber, my dear…"

He shook his head. "You know what would happen if he'd found it- I couldn't let him find it- couldn't let him look for you anymore… And so, I- I showed myself to him- I wanted to…persuade him to leave, but he- he pointed a revolver at me."

Erik's hand delved into his pocket, and he pulled out an oblong object that gave off a metallic glint - the revolver, Christine realized with horror and a sort of morbid excitement.

"This is the pistol the boy fired at me. I took it with me - it would have caused an... inconvenience, if someone had found it," he muttered sullenly.

Knitting her brow, Christine moved a bit closer to inspect the weapon. Erik firmly held the revolver in his hands, but seemed content with her looking at it. It had a dark wooden handle that was decorated with a complex floral ornament - it went up the handle, stopped before the hammer and the cylinder that shone with a silver glint, and then continued along the thing, long muzzle until its very end.

The contraption seemed very complex to her, and the stupefaction must have shown on her face because Erik smirked and rotated the gun in his hands, looking at it from different angles.

"Seems sophisticated to your young eyes, my dear?" he asked, voice laced with amusement.

Christine nodded, not entirely sure what was so funny.

Erik's smirk grew wider. "The principle of operation is very simple, actually. The cylinder has six chamber in it - for six cartridges." He took the gun by the handle and pressed into the cylinder from one side - it went out, rotating on an axis and showing six chambers, five of which were loaded with unfired bullets.

"The cartridges are loaded inside the cylinder - see? Here. Then it is closed," he set the cylinder into place and spinned it, "then you cock the hammer - it is a safety mechanism, so that the weapon wouldn't fire on accident, - and then you pull the trigger." He pointed at the hammer and the trigger.

Then he took out one bullet and showed it to Christine. "A cartridge consists of two parts - a bullet itself, and a load of a certain propellant. More often than not it's gunpowder."

Christine squinted a bit, adjusting her glasses, and nodded. She noticed that the cartridge consisted of two seemingly separate parts.

Erik loaded the cartridge back into the cylinder. "When the trigger is pulled, the trigger mechanism activates - an ignite pin, powered by a spring, darts out, lights up the propellant that is stored inside the cartridge. The gunpowder blows up - that is the sound you hear during a gunshot - and the force of the explosion makes the bullet fly out."

Christine, being a bit overwhelmed by all this knowledge, simply nodded again. And then she realized that Erik had intentionally changed the topic.

"Erik. What happened next?"

Erik opened his mouth, but shut it before any sound came out. He frowned and looked away, stuffing the revolver back into his pocket. "My reaction time used to be better."

Something clicked in her head. She sharply turned her head to look up at the man. "Were you hurt?!"

At that, even Erik looked startled. "What? No! No, Erik wasn't hurt." A small smile appeared on his face. "But Erik is glad that Christine cares…" He let out a sniff, and his golden eyes darted back to Raoul's face.

"...I readied my Punjab lasso. I aimed to disarm him, but he fired first, and I had to dodge. The bullet made a hole in my cloak..." he stated belatedly, looking down at his boots. "...It was my favourite... But nevermind."

He looked up again, now staring at the ceiling. "The boy, it seems, was startled by the force of the sudden recoil. A moment was everything Erik needed to jump closer, wrench the damned peashooter out of his hand and - alas, old habits die hard, - knock him unconscious."

Erik let out a sniff. "The boy fell down and hit his head on a sharp angle of a stage piece that happened to be nearby…" His hand flinched upwards in a gesture to Raoul's face.

He shook his head. "I- I didn't know what to think- I couldn't let the boy die, you would have known, you would have known!" he wailed, furiously waving his hands to the sides. "And you would have thought that Erik- that Erik was the one who killed him, just like- just like everyone did… when the good old Bouquet died!"

His mood swings were so fast and erratic, she noted to herself. One second he was smiling, amused, and now he was crying?ng?

And what was that about Joseph Bouquet?

Erik suddenly jerked to the side, startling Christine. "Oh, oh, Erik is so sorry! Erik completely forgot, what an old fool he is, Christine!..." he rambled as he disappeared from the small room into the corridor.

Christine, now being even more confused than before, slid closer to Raoul and took the young man's hand into hers.

"Raoul," she murmured. She raised his hand to her face and pressed her warm lips to the cold skin of his palm.

She tried an awkward smile and reached out to so ever gently brush a stray hair from his bloodied forehead. "Please, wait just a bit more…"

Erik, having already returned with the necessary medications, watched the scene from the doorway, heart lurching in pain.

There were no doubts left. It was obvious. She loved Raoul… Never would have loved Erik.

Christine turned to the sound of a sob and saw Erik in the doorway. She noticed that his cloak was gone, and his mask was back.

Her first instinct was to dart away from Raoul and apologize… but she did not. Instead, she firmly held Raoul's hand and met Erik's tormented gaze with her own.

Erik let out another sob, lowered his head and strode quickly to the couch, putting the medical equipment on a small table nearby.

His bony, unnaturally long, crooked fingers carefully took Raoul's face by the sides and rotated it a little. Then they delved into the young man's golden hair, searching for the wound.

"Your boy will be fine," he muttered, holding back tears. "He lost quite a bit of blood… But it was to be expected. On the head, the blood vessels are close to the surface…"

Erik squinted his eyes and dipped his head to look closer. "...I am afraid the stitches are necessary. The wound is stretched sideways; it will not close on its own."

Christine bit her lip in worry. "Can't we take him to a hospital?..."

Erik was silent for a second. "...I… I don't think so, my dear. Your young man is quite heavy, Erik only managed to bring him so far."

"What do we do, then?"

"...Erik will perform the necessary operation."

Christine's eyes widened. "But… do you know how?"

Erik let out a bark of a laughter. "Of course. Erik hasn't done this in a while, however… And it will be quite a mess."

"Wh-what do you mean?!"

Without giving her any answer, Erik stood up and left once again - this time he returned, holding a leather bag with surgical equipment.

"Christine, if you don't want to look, you can go and rest in your room," he said, laying out a menacing-looking pair of scissors, a thick roll of white gauze, a bottle of what seemed to be medical alcohol, a thread and an extremely thin needle.

Christine gulped and nodded, eyes trained on the equipment. "A-alright."

She stood up and backed away to the corridor. The last thing she saw was Erik fishing a brown opaque bottle containing an unknown liquid out of his bag, pouring its contents onto a rag and pressing it to Raoul's face.

She closed the door and stood in the dark hallway for a few moments, still in a shock from all the happenings that evening. She had already started for her room in Louis-Philippe style, when her gaze fell onto an ajar door further down the corridor.

Erik's room.

It seemed like he had forgotten to lock it in his haste.

She slowly went up to it and sneaked inside.

It was as morbid and dark as she remembered it to be. There was that large, luxurious, but so utterly disgusting coffin in the center, surrounded by blood red velvet draperies. There was that enormous, intimidating-looking organ that took up a whole side of the room to the left.

However, there were also some details she hadn't noticed the last time she'd been here. There was a working desk, overfilled with so many papers - all sorts of papers! - building designs, hand-written music, obviously of Erik's own composition, some written texts and letters in French and in some other languages, unknown to Christine...

A quill and an ink cartridge lay forgotten upon it, and the back of the table was decorated with all sorts of various trinkets: some strange mechanisms, bottles filled with strange liquids, even chemistry equipment.

There was more equipment on another table to the side, obviously set up for an experiment of some sorts; a notebook full of drafts and calculations lay forgotten near it.

There was also a bookcase in the corner which contained scientific texts on all languages and subjects; among them, an old, tattered cover could be seen, much thinner than all the other books. Christine went up to it and took it out to check the name: it turned out to be an sappy romance novel, obviously loved and re-read an insane amount of times.

There were also shelves that were filled, too, with various books, also strange mechanisms, weird trinkets, statuettes, even valuables.

Christine was amazed by all this diversity of knowledge, contained in such a small space. She slowly realized that she knew almost nothing about Erik or his past.

She knit her brow. That would not do! If he wanted them to get closer to each other, he would need to tell her more about himself.

She wondered suddenly why she even HAD such a thought.

Her eyes fell onto a bundle of black cloth, draped over the piano bench near the organ. Erik's cloak, she realized.

And then she remembered that Erik put the revolver into a pocket of his cloak.

Driven by morbid curiousity, she stalked up to it and, after looking behind her shoulder, nervously inspected the cloak's pockets. A bottle of something, a piano chord? A handkerchief, a small notebook, and- ahah! She felt the touch of cold metal, and she fished out the revolver.

It was heavier than she'd thought. The weight of it felt very real in her hands. Her brain scrambled for the memories of explanation Erik gave to her - the hammer was up, and the cartridges were still there…

She put her thumb to the cylinder and pressed sideways. It wouldn't give way, and she pressed harder and harder, wincing, until she changed the vector of a the force a bit, and the cylinder suddenly jumped out of place- she gasped in surprise and moved to inspect the insides of the object.

All five remaining cartridges were still there.

She pressed into the cylinder again, and it clicked back into place with a distinct metallic sound. Her thoughts rushed through her head.

She could take it, she realized. She could take the revolver and hide it somewhere. For self-defense reasons…

 _'Is this really necessary?'_ the small voice of reason asked her. _'While sane, he has never been anything but courteous to you.'_

'That's the reason. Who knows when he can go insane again? He might… and who knows what he would do then?'

 _'Your thinking is insane, girl, and has no basis in reality,'_ said harshly the small voice, and she winced. Yes, that much was true.

 _'He would notice that the revolver is gone. He would question YOU, since nobody else could have possibly taken it, and he would make you give it back to him,'_ continued the trail of thoughts. _'Would you want betray his trust once AGAIN?'_

Christine shook her head.

'No. I wouldn't want that…'

 _'Exactly. Now let's put the thing back… and go to the Louis-Philippe room.'_

Christine slowly moved to put the revolver back.

"Christine?"

She gasped and jumped, turning towards Erik, who was standing in the doorway with the widest eyes ever.

"...Christine? What are you doing here?..." His eyes darted down and narrowed in a most foreboding manner.

"...What are you doing with that thing?" he asked, voice seething with danger.

Christine looked at her hand… which was still holding the revolver. Her mind was blank with panic - she gaped like a fish.

"I- I, uhh… um…" she tried.

Erik raised his chin and waited patiently for an answer.

"I, uh, was just interested in- in this," she mumbled miserably, holding out the revolver.

"Ah. Right," Erik replied, a carnivorous smile obvious in that dreadful tone.

He dipped his chin low, looking at Christine with overwhelming intensity. God, she thought, backing up just the smallest bit, he could be scary when he wanted to…

"Do you want to keep it?"

Christine blinked. "Wh-what?"

"I asked, DO YOU WANT TO KEEP THE REVOLVER?" Erik repeated much louder than was needed.

Wincing against the terrifying torrent of , Christine shook her head. "N-no. I- I don't want to keep it. Really, I- I just wanted to examine it… my-myself."

She put the revolver down on Erik's cloak and gave it a pat. "Yes."

"Mhm. Right," the Voice seethed. "Should Erik put ALL dangerous things in the house behind locks and on top shelves so that you wouldn't reach them?" he asked, obviously smirking.

Christine's fear turned into rage. "I am NOT a child!" she bellowed.

"Ah, but you sure ACT like one, my dear," Erik purred and finally moved from the doorway.

"I'd love to stay here with you and chat a bit, however, if I did, a certain patient out there in the drawing-room would bleed out to his death, and I am QUITE sure you would not like that," he said nonchalantly, striding up to his desk and opening one of the drawers to retrieve something, "so if you would do everyone a favour and stay in your room until the end of the operation, I would be so very grateful to, please, thank you."

He returned to the doorway and with an abrupt movement of his arm motioned for her to come out.

Cheeks burning with anger and shame, she walked out of Erik's room, and without another word stalked to her own, shutting the door behind her.


End file.
